


impatience

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, Continuation, Drunken Kissing, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, dream team, heat waves, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: when september finally happens - when george flies to florida and sapnap is dragged along as a buffer - what then?~a continuation of heat waves. this is not intended to overwrite the original story: im just impatient (hence the name)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87
Collections: Anonymous





	impatience

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [tbhyourelame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tbhyourelame/pseuds/tbhyourelame). Log in to view. 



He’s not short. Even though he _is_ shorter than Dream, it feels as though Dream has to crane his neck up to fully understand the breadth of him.

If his calls—his messages—his photos—weren’t already enough to overflow what little capacity Dream felt he had in his chest, seeing him—finally _seeing him—_ was enough to send feeling splashing onto the floor.

_Agony, agony, agony,_ Dream thinks, watching as Sapnap barrels into George with full force. He’d arrived in the morning after a red-eye flight, whilst George’s flight had been delayed till the early afternoon.

And now the three of them were finally— _finally_ —together.

He’s got his hood pulled up and his hands shoved into the pocket of his sweater. He feels as though if George was to scour any of his bare skin, he’d leave a trail of burns, singed skin and hair, very nearly cutting through to the bone and cauterising his blood vessels along the way. Its visceral, and they’re still many feet apart.

George escapes Sapnap’s full-body hug, nearly knocking over his luggage. When he finally turns, Dream very nearly drops to his knees.

“Hello,” he says. Dream can hardly hear it over the racing of his heart. Dream nods twice, wringing out his fingers. If George notices, he doesn’t make a show of looking down.

“Hey,” Dream manages. _You take. You don’t reach. You—you grab._ He has to stop himself from intertwining his fist in the rumpled material of his sweater and yanking him in close.

_This isn’t no, Dream. It’s a not yet._

They hadn’t spoken about it since that call.

Sapnap quickly conceals a pained look when he realises exactly how difficult his role as buffer is going to be. It’s almost as though Dream and George are strangers, standing and staring at each other. Dream has always known what George looks like, but George is finally being granted the full picture, and Dream can’t help but revel in the attention. As soon as George snaps out of it, it’s unlikely he’ll look at Dream again. He doesn’t want anyone to point it out to him—he wants to be frozen in time, to only be appreciated by George and nothing else.

“You promised it’d be cooler,” Sapnap complains, ambling over and shoving his elbow into Dream’s side.

He and George break the spell. George squints skyward, running a hand through his hair. It’s already mussed from the flight. Dream is desperate to make it worse.

“You’re such a brat,” Dream decides.

“Let’s _go,”_ he insists.

“At least let George decide if he wants a coffee or something to eat—“

“I’m fine,” George says, voice gentle. Hushed. “Nick’s right, we should get out of the heat.”

Right. They’d agreed on real names. Dream—Dream is going to have to hear George call him Clay. _Fuck._

“You’re paler on screen,” Sapnap complains. “If he burns before I do, I’m leaving.”

“You’re seriously not going to bet on who gets sunburnt first,” Dream retorts. “He’s _English._ They have no concept of sunshine there. It’s rigged against him.”

“Fuck you,” George says, with more weight than he perhaps intended. “I’ll take the bet. I’ll win it, too.”

“How much?”

“A fiver. Dream, you’re in too.”

Dream arches his brow as they cross the carpark, nearly laughing at the way George has to shield his eyes from the sun. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You heard me,” George insisted, petulant. He’s jet-lagged and almost too tired to carry his own luggage. Dream slows and takes the suitcase handle from him, cursing his ineptitude. He keeps steering off the path and getting lost, and it hasn’t even been five minutes. He should have offered, right off the bat. He should have asked, just then, but the suitcase is already out of George’s grasp.

_Breathe,_ he tells himself.

“Last man standing, then,” Dream says, looking down.

George stares at the propositioned suitcase, then glances up at him. “Shake on it.”

_Oh, god,_ Dream thinks.

“You’re sleep deprived and ridiculous,” Sapnap says, slinging his arm around George’s shoulders and directing them to Dream’s car. “Let’s get you home, get you fed, and chuck you into bed. Yes? Yes. Fabulous.”

“Nick,” George attempts. “Don’t coddle me—“

“ _Someone’s_ gotta.” Sapnap rips open the back seat of Dream’s car. “M’sir.”

Dream can’t help but smile as Sapnap’s idiocy rips a startled laugh from George’s mouth. Floridian sun pales in comparison to the sound, and Dream realises that hearing George’s voice unfiltered by a telephone is…everything.

But Dream is the visual one and George the auditory one. He holds onto that—the thought that just as much as Dream is overwhelmed by finally seeing George in person, having him close enough to touch and hold, George has to contend with finally seeing the full picture of Dream’s face, as well as his voice, full unhindered.

He slips into the driver’s seat and glances up into the rearview. He meets George’s gaze.

“Ready?” He asks, voice intentionally low.

George’s eyes widen slightly. He gives a somewhat reluctant nod as he sinks down. It looks like exhaustion to the average person, but Dream knows what makes George—how did he put it?— _melt._

The drive is not short. They play music, but heatwaves is not on this playlist. It’s mostly Sapnap’s favourites, meaning the car is filled with his nasal yelling. A smile begins to grow on George’s lips, and Dream stares straight out the windshield.

“Food!” Sapnap insists, looking out as a Chick-Fil-A passes by. “Please, Clay?”

“Not Chick-Fil-A,” he says. “You really need to stop endorsing that shit.”

“The thought of anyone un-straight eating their food must drive them up the walls. I consume it out of spite.”

_Make that three un-straights,_ Dream nearly blurts out. He’s not sure how well that joke would go down. They haven’t really had that conversation explicitly, amongst the three of them. Yes, Sapnap has finally told them that he and Karl are…something, but that doesn’t mean they need to get together and gossip about boys and Lady Gaga—whatever one is meant to do when they come out. Dream hasn’t a clue.

He hasn’t even attempted to figure out a label for himself. He’s pretty sure that he’s just George-obsessed, and nothing else. It seems pointless trying to convince himself otherwise.

They order pizza to Dream’s house, and Dream immediately commits George’s order to memory. He’s a routinely person. Not calculative, like Sapnap, getting what’s cheapest or what’s going to fill him up. Not sporadic, like Dream, getting whatever catches his eye.

They work together well, the three of them. They make sense.

  
Dream’s hands clench around the steering wheel as George starts humming along with one of Sapnap’s ABBA songs, accompanying Nick as he belts out the chorus. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

They’re going to find themselves alone together. Sooner or later—all there will be to look at, to hear, will be George. Dream will have no choice but to pay attention, despite the nausea that has seated itself in his stomach.

What is he going to say, when they’re finally alone? What is he supposed to _do?_ Hug him? _Kiss his forehead?_

Definitely not, Dream thinks. _Definitely_ not.

“Here we are,” he says, pulling up to the curb outside his home. It’s quiet. Somewhere, the birds are rustling the trees.

George looks out the window, blinks slowly, and then lights up. _“Patches.”_

Dream chucks Sapnap the keys to the front of the house and watches as George scrambles out of the car and down the front path, bouncing impatiently at the front door.

Dream lugs his suitcase out of the boot and locks his car. The two of them were well inside by the time he arrives at the porch, front door swung wide open.

Sapnap’s already taken the study downstairs, pulling out the queen mattress from the sofa. George is in the single guest bed where Dream’s mother usually stays when she comes down, his sisters sharing that double in the study. Dream pulls the bag up the stairs and nudges George’s room open, pulling the suitcase inside.

He checked that everything was in order—the sheets, the towel, the curtains, the lamp—before hearing Sapnap’s coos.

Dream sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose—these are his best friends, this shouldn’t be that _hard_ —and goes to find them.

They found Patches in Dream’s bedroom and burst in with little consideration for it being—well, Dream’s room. Looking at George, Dream realises that it probably hasn’t clicked for George yet, exactly where he is, exactly what he’s lounged across to scratch Patches between the ears.

Patches, the skittish thing she is, is surprisingly receptive to George’s little coos and nail-bitten fingers curling under her chin. She flops backwards, paws skywards, and George makes another noise that Dream refuses to commit to memory.

“I forgot to shuffle her out of my room before we left for the airport,” Dream says, poignant. “She likes it in here too much.”

George blinks, sitting up and placing a hand on Dream’s comforter, looking around. Sees the PC, the desk, the chest of drawers and bedside table. Sees the double bed, the grey sheets and the two pillows propped up against the headboard. Dream’s shoes, lined up by the door. The door to his bathroom, propped open slightly.

His blush is far too obvious. Sapnap busies himself with the cat, who was extremely disappointed in the lack of attention.

“I didn’t mean to burst in,” George says, standing up too quickly and wobbling slightly. Dream nearly reaches out to steady him. “I just saw her dart in here and followed—“

“She likes you,” Dream says, watching as Patches wanders away from Sapnap’s reach to headbutt George’s hip.

“She’s deprived of affection,” Sapnap laments.

  
Dream scoffs. Patches is not a cat deprived of affection: she is, rather, the opposite. 

George glances down with a half-smile. “We’ll have to spoil her whilst we’re here.”

“If you must,” Dream sighs, affecting irritation. George’s brow arches, as he lets his smile grow. It disappears as he looks up once more, remembering himself.

“Well—“ he gestures vaguely towards the door. “I better go unpack my stuff—“

  
The doorbell rings.

“Food!” Sapnap crows, hooking Dream’s arm and grabbing George by the wrist, dragging them both down the stairs. Dream and George are right by one another in Sapnap’s wake. Dream glances down as George stares determinedly forward, chin high.

_Look, don’t touch,_ Dream reminds himself, curling his fists tighter. At this rate, he won’t be able to uncurl them.

It appears that they wouldn’t yet have that moment alone together. The three of them collapse onto Dream’s couch with pizza sprawled across the coffee table.

He lets out a quietened sigh, sinking lower into the cushions as Sapnap and George exchange stories of their flights, their plans, their last streams.

And yes, Dream is distinctly aware of George in every possible way and sense, but—

He is also content. They are finally here, the three of them, in one place. Together.

No matter what happens with George—Dream would make sure that this would stay okay. Dream, Sapnap and George. The Dreamteam, through and through.

With Patches curled up beside him, his closest friends’ chatter in his ears and the gentle whirring of the air-conditioning unit above their heads, Dream finally lets himself close his eyes.

*

“You’re serious?”

George nods, owl-eyed. He is bouncing on the balls of his feet, swinging his arms forward and backwards.

It has been four nights. They’d explored Orlando a little bit—played minigolf, visited Disneyworld, been out to restaurants and lakes—but they’d also spent much of their time at Dream’s place. Recording a video where the three of them try to beat Minecraft as one—but with no plugins and coding. Just the three of them cramped around his PC, bickering.

Sapnap had pointedly sat between them. Their fingers had nearly brushed when George had frantically reached for a water bucket as the Enderdragon flung them up into the air, and Dream had nearly reached over to hug him when they were all cheering at the dragon’s death. George had been flushed across his cheeks, a glint in his eye as they’d grinned at one another.

It is almost natural, the three of them. Just like Dream knew it would be. Except for…well.

“You said that you’d hate clubbing,” Sapnap reminds him.

“I’m feeling courageous,” George says, still bouncing.

Sapnap arches his eyebrow. “Okay, but I have to pregame. They won’t serve me.”

“I know a place,” Dream says. “They check one ID per group.”

“And with two qualifiers…” George adds, leaning forward just a little further.

Sapnap grins. “Let’s get _smashed.”_

Dream should have known it was a terrible idea.

They started the evening with beer, sitting outside in Dream’s backyard. He sips slowly, knowing he hasn’t eaten much and that it wouldn’t end well if he tried. With Sapnap throwing them back and George already flushed in the evening heat, he knows he’ll be the one carting them around for the evening.

He doesn’t mind the thought of that. Keeping them both safe. Helping them have fun. Maybe George will finally relax enough to truly smile. He’ll forget that they were both trying to hold back and finally give himself the space to breathe.

Dream takes another gulp of his beer.

“Are we catching a taxi?” George inquires. Dream shook his head.

“You ought not to drive, Clay.” Sapnap insists.

“I’ll only have this one,” he says, gesturing with his can.

Sapnap makes a face. “And for the way back?”

Dream reaches over and ruffles his hair. “It’ll be fine, okay?”

“No,” George says. “You’re not getting behind that wheel unless you’re fully sober.”

Dream looks at him. “Okay.”

Sapnap snickers behind his bottleneck. George and Dream shove him at the same time before he can say anything out of line. Dream shouldn’t have ever brought up clubbing. He should’ve said no to George, except when has he _ever_ said no to George?

They find themselves in the line outside the club not two hours later, when it is finally dark and starting to drizzle. Sapnap is jeering George for English drinking songs whilst Dream looks ahead of the queue, anticipating the ID check.

The bouncer’s gaze lights up with recognition. “Damn, is that you, Clay?”

“The one and only,” Sapnap insists, shoving his elbow into Dream’s side.

“Been a while,” he grins, clapping Dream on the shoulder. Dream has no idea what his name is—can’t even remember his face. “We didn’t miss you causing trouble.”

“Trust me,” he says. “I’m the least of your worries now.”

The guard just laughs, waving them through.

George appears as his shoulder, looking around the dimly lit club with eyes wide. “Do you know him?”

“In a matter of speaking,” Dream says. “People here know of me. Doesn’t mean they know me.”

A purple beam of light dances across George’s cheekbones. Dream very nearly reaches out to cup his jaw and tilt up his head, so that he can watch the way the light plays across George’s pale skin.

“Alcohol!” Sapnap insists, dragging them over to the bar.

The bartenders don’t recognise Dream, but one girl does give George an appraising look and winks as she makes him a double-shot rather than a single. George flushes. Dream’s stomach knots itself.

They throw back shots—one, two, George and Sapnap having a third whilst Dream nursed another beer—then Sapnap dragged Dream into his third round whilst George drinks a cider. After that it really starts to get hazy. He knows he should have eaten something. It is dark—the music iis loud—and Sapnap is darting here and there as though he is glitching in and out of reality.

George is breathing out of his mouth, leaning on the table that they’d secured for the three of them. A tray of empty glasses are stacked up like a wall between them, Dream only just able to meet George’s gaze from over the top of it. For a moment they just look at one another. Dream didn’t think that George’s ochre irises could be a homing beacon—but they are.

“Hey,” George says, blinking. “Where’s Nick?”

Someone stumbles into Dream, very nearly spilling her drink and avoiding it through sheer luck alone. She is tall and thin and has her hair smeared across her forehead, eyes fluttering as her gaze climbs upwards to meet Dream’s.

“Hello,” she manages, looping an arm around Dream’s shoulders to pull herself up straight. “This is entirely my bad. You’re very sturdy, I’ll have you know.”

“Thank you?”

“Hey,” George snaps, yelling over the music and clutching the edge of the table. “Where the hell is Nick?”

The girl salutes Dream and vanishes into the crowd, but Dream hasn’t been paying attention to her.

George was glaring. Nostrils flared, eyes unfocused. Sweat collecting on his brow as his hair goes out into every direction possible, despite his earlier efforts at taming it.

“I don’t know where Nick is,” Dream says, voice low. “George?”

“I’m going to find him,” George announces.

“George—“

“Are you coming?”

Dream feels violently ill. It’s been creeping up on him all evening. “I need the bathroom. Call me if you can’t find him?”

  
George wilts, anger withdrawing as quickly as it’d appeared. He wraps his arms around his stomach, swaying slightly. Dream pulls back from the table, the empty glasses and empty promises about everything being okay neglected and lonely amongst the spills of vodka, syrup and beer.

_I shouldn’t leave him alone,_ Dream thinks, hand guiding him as he feels along the wall furthest from the bar. He remembers the bathroom being here last time he’d visited to make a fool out of himself. It’s easy to find, a line of girls outside the female restroom and a drunk man stumbling out of the male’s.

Dream shoves his way in and leans against the sink, hands clutching the edge of the ceramic bowl. He doesn’t want to throw up. He really, truly doesn’t. Out of the heat of sweaty bodies on that god-foresaken dance floor, he feels a little better. He wishes he had some water but he makes do with washing his hands and pressing damp palms against his forehead to cool himself down.

He is miserable. He shouldn’t have had anything to drink. He wishes he could head home early, but to leave his friends—his _friend,_ and George—out on their lonesome nearly brings him to actually lean over the toilet.

_You’re fine,_ he tells himself. Over and over and _over._

He won’t have anything else. He’ll just make sure that Sapnap and George have a good time, make sure they get back home in a cab, and spend the rest of the evening lying on the cool tile of his bathroom floor, contemplating his mistakes.

_You haunt me,_ he thinks, looking up into the poorly-cleaned mirror and seeing George standing behind him. _You hurt me._

He blinks, but George is gone. He is pretty sure he’s losing his mind.

The dance floor is sticky and crowded when he slips back out of the bathroom with clean hands and very little clarity in his mind. There’s a guy making out with a girl on an old leather couch, nearing public indecency. Dream feels his skin flush all over again, efforts at calming himself in the bathroom ultimately hopeless.

He stays by the wall, trying to see if he can see two dark-headed boys making a fool of themselves. He is too busy looking up and around that he doesn’t see the one he’s more scared of approach, hands shaking as they reach out and shove Dream back against the wall.

Dream looks down, wind knocked out of him as George grabs his shirt into his fists and holds on tight.

“Where’s Nick?” Dream mumbles, heart racing as George presses him against the wall. _Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fucking—fuck—!_

“He’s fine,” George insists, words only mildly slurred. Dream isn’t sure if it’s him or George. They’re both—they’re both drunk. That is plain enough to see.

He grabs George’s waist— _oh, god_ —and flips them around, pressing George into the exposed brick wall. It’s rough and crumbling with age. George doesn’t seem to care, staring up with his lips parted. Dream finally— _finally_ —circles his arms around George’s waist and pulls him close, forehead falling onto George’s shoulders.

George’s hands skim downwards, fingertips brushing bare skin where Dream’s shirt has ridden up. And when he whispered “Clay,” Dream cannot fathom a thought more comprehensible than _oh, fuck._

They aren’t kissing. Dream still has his head bowed, buried into the crook of George’s neck. He smells like booze and his antiperspirant and something else, something a little sharper than one might expect. George has his head tilted back against the brick, gasping for breath and occasionally whispering out Dream’s name—his _real_ name—like a prayer. Other than that, they’re completely still.

Dream is too drunk for his. His lips press against George’s shoulder—the collarbones that he always shows off in those stupid fucking selfies—and holds his breath.

And then—with an exhale, and with every ounce of restraint in his body—he steps back.

“No,” George breathes, hardly lucid. Reaching out, hands grabbing for something - _anything._

“We can’t,” Dream mumbles. They’re still close, but Dream no longer feels like he’s plastered himself against the surface of the sun.

“What’s the point?” George moaned, digging the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “What’s the fucking point?”

Dream doesn’t have an answer to that.

George’s hand is curled in Dream’s collar. He slowly begins to let go.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

  
Dream nods.

Sapnap complains for the entire drive home. Dream deposits himself in the passenger seat, staring poignantly out the window whilst Sapnap attempts to cajole George into conversation, but George is nearly catatonic, head resting against the window. By the time they arrive home, Sapnap has calmed, the high of being surrounded by people and lights and music wearing off, only leaving the dazed affects of drunkenness in its wake.

“Help me with him,” he insists, pulling George out of the car. Dream nods, scooping him up and hooking his free arm over his shoulder. The cab driver pulls away, shaking his head. Dream doesn’t care. George is mumbling slightly as they stumble up the porch steps, Dream fumbling for his key.

“Ugh!” Sapnap immediately flops into his bed, leaving the door to the study wide open and his shoes still on. George’s weight falls onto Dream as he pulls George up the stairs, continually swallowing back bile. Maybe he’d forget what happened. Maybe he’ll be too drunk to remember when morning comes. Dream won’t forget—he always remembers everything, no matter the amount of alcohol in his system—but he can keep it quiet. He can keep it to himself.

He lays George down on his unmade bed and tugs off the man’s shoes, squeezing his eyes shut as he stumbles out of George’s room, tugging the door shut behind him.

He had a freezing cold shower, gulps down a glass of water and changes for bed. All he pulls on is a pair of sweats, his wet hair making the pillow soggy as he stares up at the ceiling.

He doesn’t sleep. Images—sensations—purple club lights—dance across his ceiling. He’s pretty much sober at this point, though he has no clue how much time passes. He very nearly gets up out of bed to boot up his PC when he hears a noise from across the hall.

George’s door opens.

Dream holds his breath, letting it go when he hears the bathroom door shut. He keens an ear out in case George is vomiting, but all he hears is the shower cutting on. He grabs his second pillow and buries his face in it, letting out a visceral sound of frustration. A scream? A yell? A sob? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know anything.

The shower cuts off. Feet gently pad along the carpet, but Dream doesn’t hear George’s bedroom door close.

He puts down the pillow and looks to his door.

When it opens, he freezes.

George sees that Dream is awake, that he is aware, that he can see George standing in Dream’s doorway, and stills. Patches worms around George’s ankles, peering up at Dream momentarily before disappearing down the stairs.

“I thought she wanted to come in,” George whispers.

Dream sits up slightly, propped up on his elbows. “George?”

George steps into Dream’s room, silently closing the door behind him. He’s only wearing an oversized t-shirt and boxers.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still drunk?”

George shakes his head. Dream’s heart is racing.

“Come here.”

He takes the two necessary steps to make it to Dream’s bed and then slowly sits down on the edge of the empty side. He pulls his feet in, makes a ball, and then falls onto his back, staring up at the same ceiling Dream has been agonising over for the last hour or so. Dream mirrors him.

Then he rolls onto his side, staring at Dream’s face with zero tact or subtlety. A hand slides across the sheets and carefully curls around Dream’s wrist.

Dream lets go of the breath he was holding. “What are you…”

“I realise this has all been on my terms,” George murmured. “I don’t want it to be. I can’t—I can’t do one-sided.”

Dream finally lets his head fall to the side, meeting George’s gaze. “George,”

“Clay,” he says.

Something in Dream’s chest breaks. Breaks _open._ “George—come _here.”_

“I’m already here,” George whispers.

“I can’t take this,” Dream murmurs, letting George’s fingers slip between his own. _Hold on_. “You need to give it to me.”

George shuffles closer. Dream mirrors him, rolling onto his side.

“Are you…are you sure?” Dream whispers. They are nose to nose. His hand reaches for the hem of George’s oversized shirt and plays with it. George’s swallow is audible.

“I’ll never figure out if I’m actually ready unless I just—“ George makes a vague gesture with his free hand, letting it fall down onto the side of Dream’s face. He frowns, cupping his hand under Dream’s jaw like he was testing out how well they fit together.

He is right there. _Right there._ Dream’s mind is blank. He thought he’d know what to do when they got to this point, but George just has his fingers moving in circles repeatedly over the hollow of Dream’s cheek, occasionally brushing damp hair behind his ear. Dream is already struck clueless.

Their legs slot together, George hooking one over Dream’s hip. _Oh fuck. Oh, god._ Dream is burning, burning, _burning._ He is hanging off the edge of an abyss with no way of knowing whether he’ll survive the fall. George lets out a shaky breath as they inch closer, _closer,_ Dream’s hand inching further upwards underneath George’s t-shirt. Bare skin spreads out under his searching fingers.

“I’m here,” George whispers, fingers slipping under the waistband of Dream’s sweats.

_I’m here._

_I reach for you_. Dream closes his eyes, and lets go of the ledge.

*

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: shipping IRL people is always touchy, and i dont actually ship george and dream. I'm writing this based on internet personas and a fanfiction because i appreciate the story. if the CCs are uncomfortable with this, i will remove it. please keep that in mind and respect the wishes of any and all real people you create content on.


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